Mantra
by BabyCaramel
Summary: RENTfic. Someone's in love. I don't like writing summaries, so that's all. You can figure it out. :-) Please read/review, even if you hate it...


((Yes, I'm writing again. No, it's not my Untitled Rogerfic which I really _should_ be working on. Deal. Thanks go to Kait for being so much more than just my best friend. I owe whatever semblance of mental health I still have to her. She also came up with the title, so blame her if you don't like it. If you don't like the story... um... blame Trey. ::shrugs:: 

Edited 12/9/01 because I'm a big moron who can't spell Jonathan correctly. The story is still the same, so no need to read it again if you already have. Of course, if you haven't, do read/review, pretty please!)) 

Disclaimer: The characters belong to Jonathan Larson. Or whoever owns the rights to them. I don't know. Ira isn't mine, either. I'm pretty sure Kait created her, but I have a terrible memory. 

  
**Mantra**

  
I'm in love with him. 

There, I said it. Ira says I'm in denial. She makes it sound like admitting it to myself will cause everything to fall magically into place. She also says that I'm a romantic, an idealist, that beneath my tough punk-rock exterior, I'm "just a big cuddly gay teddy bear." When I insisted that I'm _not_ gay, she changed it to "big cuddly _bi_ teddy bear" and had a good long laugh over it. 

Really. Is there anything so unusual or wrong about wanting things to be simple and sweet and storybook perfect? 

Like the time he had a nightmare and curled up on my bed, sobbing and insisting on sleeping with me. I ran my fingers through his hair -- it was so beautiful and soft and irresistably touchable -- and then I kissed away the tears on his cheeks. Thank God he was too upset to realize what I'd done and react. He just sniffled, smiled weakly, and fell asleep on my chest. 

If Heaven exists, I think I might have found it that night. For a few moments, it didn't matter that we were both men, or that I still had a girlfriend, or that come morning I would feel so guilty that I'd spend twenty minutes in the shower, scrubbing his lingering scent off my skin and trying to ignore the dull ache in my heart. 

That was before I admitted it to myself. The ache is still there, but I can recognize it now. I'm not sure if that makes it better or worse. At least when I was denying its existence, it couldn't hurt or haunt or relentlessly torture me. 

Sometimes I consider telling him. I'll come so close, it'll be on the tip of my tongue, hungering for release. Then something inevitably holds me back. Fear, maybe. Paranoia. The nagging dread that if I tell him, he'll freak out and our friendship will be ruined or damaged unfixably. Which is silly, because I know he wouldn't let such a trivial thing tear us apart. I guess, I know it, but my brain doesn't process it or something. 

Ira asked me, when I told her, how long I've felt this way. Honestly, I don't know. Maybe a few weeks. Maybe since the day we met. I've always said that we're more than just best friends, we're soulmates. Of course, I never meant it in a romantic sense -- or perhaps I did and it took me six years to figure it out. It doesn't matter, really, when or how it happened, because it's true now. 

I'm in love with him. 

I keep repeating that, like it's going to make things any clearer. Like I believe that voicing it out loud, giving it life, will work some little spell and I'll wake up tomorrow to his declaration of undying love. 

Yeah, _that's_ gonna happen. Do I really expect him to suddenly find the guts to tell me he's in love with me? To hold me and kiss me and ask me if I feel the same way? To slip his fingers gently into mine, and gaze up at me with that adorable lopsided grin, and whisper that he'll always take care of me before leaning in ever- so-slowly and allowing his thin, lovely lips to brush softly against mine? 

Oh God. I've got to stop that. Right now. I'm gonna drive myself crazy, thinking shit like that. I'll just get my hopes up, and then -- 

Fuck. What if he doesn't feel the same way? What if everything that I've interpreted as possible romantic gestures, hints that there's something more than mere friendly feelings inside him... what if I'm completely wrong? So he reminds me to take my AZT, knows exactly how to fix my coffee every morning, stares at me when he thinks I'm not paying attention, wastes entire rolls of film on footage of me, faithfully memorizes my songs and comes to every gig even though he despises clubs, waits up all night and morning for me if I stay out late, doesn't leave my side when I'm sick or depressed or panicky or going through withdrawal or even just having a hangover... that doesn't mean he's in love with me. He's a good friend -- a wonderful friend -- and that's what friends do. They take care of each other, and love each other. 

But aren't necessarily _in_ love with each other. 

Maybe I should just get it over with and tell him. It can't be that difficult. I mean, at least if I tell him, it's out there, at least I'm not keeping it hidden and letting it gnaw away at my head or my heart. Just sitting here brooding over it and not actually doing anything about it -- all I accomplish is more pain, more heartache, and I don't want that. 

Sure. 

Who am I kidding? What I love is to bleed; Mark said so himself, years ago. And that's exactly why I'll continue to sit here and brood and be miserable, reciting my mantra over and over like some god-damn broken record. 

I'm in love with him. 


End file.
